Prologue

The traffic had long before settled to the occasional night shift worker or the pretty girl who had been bedded and then asked to leave before dawn. For the officers of the Chicago Police Department, it was the best time of the day. It was quiet enough to allow them to find an alley or back street to pull over. They drank their coffee or reminisced with their partners—or perhaps even caught a quick catnap, as long as the call radio was on full volume.

Officers Delanty and Schmidt had retreated to their usual place—the alley opposite Flemming’s Bakery. Armed with a thermos of coffee, Officer Delanty lowered his window a couple of inches. They liked to inhale the aroma of fresh-baking doughnuts propelled into the air by the exhaust fan over the ovens. As was their custom, about five a.m., whoever was not driving would saunter across the street and knock on the back door. Mr. Flemming, proprietor, and head pastry chef, would greet the officer and hand over a complimentary bag of the soft, warm, doughy brown orbs. Chocolate-covered were their favorite. The officer would accept the bounty, tip his hat and stroll back across the street where his recently-poured cup of coffee was waiting. Office workers had their water coolers, but the officers of the Windy City had their Flemming’s Bakery.

They were about to pour their second cup of coffee when Officer Delanty chanced to look up at Flemming’s. Anyone else wouldn’t have noticed anything amiss. He, however, did and brought it to the immediate attention of his partner. “Arnie, you see that smoke coming from behind Flemming’s dumpster?”

“Yeah, I guess I do. You sure that’s smoke and not just exhaust?”

Delanty shook his head. “Nah, we’ve sat out here a lotta nights, and that’s not supposed to be there. I’ve got the wheel. Run over and check it out, will ya?”

Arnie looked at Delanty with suspicion. “No problem, but when I get back, there’d better still be four doughnuts in that bag with my name on ‘em,” he warned.

“Yeah, yeah, just get over there. It doesn’t look right.”

Arnie wiped the crumbs from his chin and lifted his sizeable body out of the car by grabbing the door frame. Ambling across the street, he reached behind to pull his pants out of his crack. I gotta stop with the doughnuts.

Delanty was about to eat Arnie’s second doughnut when his shoulder mic clicked on. “Delanty! Call it in, will ya? We need a truck, now! I’m goin’ in and get the Flemmings out.”

“Roger that,” Delanty answered and immediately put in the call. He watched as Officer Schmidt beat on the back door. He grunted as he heaved his own portly body out of the squad car, running across the street as fast as his breathless gut would allow. He saw people run from the building. “Folks, go over and stand by the squad car. Officer Schmidt still in there?”

Mrs. Flemming, her blonde hair in a bun neatly covered by a hair net was crying, but she nodded and pointed inside. “My purse,” she lamented.

Delanty took a couple of steps into the doorway, but the flames were already up the side of the building and bending over the roof. “Arnie?” he shouted.

“On my way!” came the answer.

“If you see her purse on your way, grab it.”

“Roger that.”

Delanty could hear Arnie shouting in the store, asking if anyone else was there. In the distance, Delanty could hear sirens and used his shoulder mic to verify the emergency vehicles were en route to him. “Arnie, that’s enough. It’s bad back here. Get out now. Go out the front!”

Arnie didn’t answer.

“Arnie! Did you hear me?”

Still no answer. The trucks pulled down the street then and had barely come to a stop before firemen were leaping clear of it. “Anyone inside?” one of them asked Delanty.

“Partner is still inside. Fire started here behind the dumpster, but it’s spreading fast. Better go in the front.”

Delanty stepped back out of the way and shouted, pointing to the others. “My partner is inside!”

Two men with axes ran to the front doors of the building, that were actually on the front corner. Two hefty swings and they were inside. Moments later, they dragged an unconscious Schmidt out onto the sidewalk, and a medic bent over him. Arnie was still clutching Mrs. Flemming’s purse. The medic pulled the bag free from his arm and handed to Delanty.

A crowd had gathered. Flemming’s Bakery was a local landmark—generations could remember ordering their wedding cakes, buying their Christmas pies and some still bought fresh-baked bread there every day. By the time Arnie regained consciousness, he was in the ambulance and on his way to the hospital. The medic said Arnie would be treated for smoke inhalation, but no amount of oxygen could make the Flemmings stop their tears or keep the others around them from hugging one another as they watched an era end. Delanty was due to go off duty, but he hung around a little longer. In his way, he was also grieving.

In the confusion and crowd, no one noticed the lone man standing at the end of the block, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled low over his face as the glow of a cigarette illuminated the corner of his mouth. No one heard him snicker or saw him throw the cigarette to the sidewalk, leaving the ember to die by itself.